


appalling poetry

by zephalien



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gore, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, trauma poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephalien/pseuds/zephalien
Summary: i left the title as what it was in my drafts.this is genuinely a very gross and gorey poem about processing trauma. Please be warned.





	appalling poetry

I have placed my hands in thick black tar and when they slipped beneath its scorching hot surface 

they were small

burning doesn't mark a burning thing, only increased the heat.

I've never been good at knowing when to let up

It's not quick, my tar soaked dying. Eternal slow.

I do not remember what she looks like even when I saw a picture days ago.

I wonder of fault, but it's nothing, it's useless.

Whatever fault I hold is meaningless. I hurt and hurt and hurt.

Self me others you her whoever

Responsibility perpetuates a sense of ever lasting delinquency in both my own ability to quell my present terrors and ability to stop

My actions are my own. My actions are a ghost.  
My heart is trapped in plaster.

The mold of me is hollow and more beautiful than the blood soaked rotted organ that it mimics. 

I'd prefer the clean white of statue. The thick black burning of tar.

It doesn't matter what I'd prefer. 

No one ever asked.

I have pulled my hands out once or twice and viewed the way the substance clings to me. I won't shed this tainted displeasure. I won't ever be rid of the scorch marks in my flesh.

I have dipped my entire self below it on occasion. I don't remember if this was my choice.  
(But what's a choice again? I seem to have forgotten. A futile gasp of indirected fury as the world wheels on ahead of me and I am but a limp thing waiting to be pressed into the dirt again, long since dead.

I have taken my plaster self and made it into me and still in my hands the tar will cling. 

My poor and hardened heart. Warm and gooey center like an evil ugly chocolate. 

If you bit into it somehow it would not taste like copper blood, but like foul and putrid death.

Long since dead.

Tar soaked burning skin.

Empty plaster heart.

And blood. 

blood where ever blood should be (and many more it shouldn't.)


End file.
